The Trisha Elric Syndrome
by Wiggiyfaze
Summary: Haven't you ever wondered what went on in Trisha's mind while she was ill? What did she REALLY see and hear? What was the true severity and horror of her terminal illness that raged through her mind, body, and soul? You can finally find out, when it becomes apparent that Trisha Elric's sickness is not only terrifying, but contagious.


How..? Just how did it all come to this? Why did we let it happen? _Brother... Winry... __**Mom...**_

At first, she thought nothing of it. A few chest binding coughs and wobbly legs. Nothing really, right? _**Wrong... So wrong...**_Yeah, nothing at all. Sometimes, she wondered. Wondered what it was like to be loved. To have people depend on you. To have real friends. To be _**alive.**_They always were reckless. When she told them, they assumed it meant their actions. It never meant that. It meant to think. To really _think. _Think about the trail of death and sorrow they leave in their wake, unintentionally. Think about what would happen to Risembool if they mess up. Think about _**her.**_They never do. They don't even take the time to wonder if she's been killed by one of their countless enemies. But Lord forbid that they seriously get hurt. Like they always do. **Like she always does.**

After a month, it continued. Her coughs and hacks gradually got worse, and were more occasional. She saw things. The first thing she saw was herself. She had just woken up. Something was off. Her house had a cryptic feel to it. It was as if the entire world had darkened a few notches. She fled down the staircase. Her oceanic pools widened and her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Blood. Lots and lots of blood. **Everywhere. **The walls, the floor, her precious green bandanna, the doors... Wait... What? Were those _claw marks _on the door!? She immediacy thought of Den. _Did Den make those!? Why would he...n-no please no that couldn't be true! _She forced herself to inch forward. The door... It led to her personal workshop. She reached the door and stretched her hand towards the crimson stained knob. She gulped. She turned the knob and pushed the door open. **Gore. **That would be a disturbingly accurate word to describe the scene that lay in front of her. Everything was stained scarlet. Intestines and organs lay scattered about. Dog and people organs. Granny Pinako's pipe lay in her apparent torn off hand, gripped tightly. Den's collar clenched in what was left of his jaw and head. One of Den's legs seemed to be poorly attached to Granny Pinako's arm, as if someone tried to...to join them together. Poor Winry wanted to scream, but was mute. A slouched figure became apparent in the corner off the room. Winry had no idea how and why she began to move forward, but her curiosity needed to know who that was. It kept... twitching and whispering to itself, yet strangely... It seemed as if it was conversing with others. She finally was a mere 3 steps away from it, when it turned and lunged at her. Both tumbled to the ground. Winry's head bounced off the floor. Darkness began to close in, as she clearly saw the one who created the horror show. There, on top of her, cloaked in blood, with black sclera, irises, and pupils, bearing an insanity filled grin, was herself.

It turned out, in reality, all that happened was that Winry woke up, went down stairs, dragged a confused Den into her workshop, and began to viciously rake her nails down Dens sides over and over, all while screaming.

~This time skip is brought to you by the growing army of Alphonse's kitties that await vengeance on Ed!~

Two months later~

It got worse. She couldn't move her entire lower body at all. She was permanently bedridden...Voices. Little, tiny voices would keep her company. She couldn't make out what they were saying, for they spoke only in withered whispers. She would pick at her skin until it bled. Why? Because the voice told her to. Why did she listen? A recurring image would appear in her mirror. It was always blurred, never clear, but was exceedingly familiar. She would speak to it. The responses were gargled screams of agony, but to her, it sounded like heaven. The voices told her to do things, sometimes. Some things like to pick her skin, to question existence itself, or to even kill someone. She always listened.


End file.
